


hold back the dawn

by telanaris



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AU, F/M, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: In all the yellowed-parchment scrolls and vellum-bound tomes, in all the ink that has been spilt commiting the history of the long-vanished Kingdom of Nevivon to paper, one would not find a crown prince as beloved to his people as Prince Ilya.





	hold back the dawn

In all the yellowed-parchment scrolls and vellum-bound tomes, in all the ink that has been spilt commiting the history of the long-vanished Kingdom of Nevivon to paper, one would not find a crown prince as beloved to his people as Prince Ilya. 

This love was reciprocal. The prince looked upon each of his subjects as though they were his own brothers and sisters, and cared for them just as deeply as he cared for his own kin. For the good of his kingdom Prince Ilya devoted himself to the studied philosophy and history, and treatises of wise leadership. He also spent long hours studying and the art of medicine, that he might be well-equipped to cure what ills might befall his people. He swore that under his watch no harm would come to them; he would devote his life to shielding them from suffering, and sickness, and paucity. This oath was honest and true, and though the Queens of Nevivon were much beloved, many were delighted at the thought of what new prosperity Prince Ilya’s noble heart would bring to them when he ascended the throne. 

But alas—for this was never to be. 

Though he was by all accounts fair and just, his head deserving of the crown that had been promised to him, Prince Ilya would never become Nevivon’s King... for much sorrow in this world comes from good intentions, and those who are willing to take advantage of the kindness and virtue of others to sate their avarice.

  
  


For many years, while his grandmothers yet reigned, Prince Ilya often travelled beyond Nevivon’s borders. He would adopt the humble guise of a student, and visit many far flung kingdoms in distant lands: Prakra and Hjallnir, Drakr and Aransia. In these places he would learn all he could from the healers and doctors of these countries, always with the intention to return to Nevivon with this knowledge and see it put into practice.

On the occasion of his eighteenth birthday, in anticipation of his coming-of-age celebration, the Prince was returning from one such trip to the Atarpan Coast. He had returned with samples of many exotic medicinal herbs, and was eager to share this discovery with his siblings. Most of all, he wished to speak to his sister, Princess Portia, who might take his meager cuttings and coax them into full bloom in her garden. However, as soon as the Prince stepped onto the dock off the gangway of the ship that had bore him home, he was approached by a palace guard.

“Prince Ilya, you must come at once. Your brother has fallen gravely ill.”

The guard spoke the truth, but—perhaps in haste—he had omitted the whole truth. From the carriage that bore Prince Ilya from the docks to the palace, he saw that it was not only his brother, Prince Kostya, who had become sick, but that the same sickness had seized the whole of the kingdom. His people were dying in the streets faster than they could be buried. Even the thick velvet curtains of the Prince’s carriage could not keep the smell of the rot from reaching his nose. 

In all his travels—all the hospitals and clinics he had visited—he had never smelt something so foul.

But Prince Ilya was just as much a Doctor as he is a Prince—and what use was all his wandering, if it had not equipped him with knowledge enough to save his brother and his kingdom both? 

For two days, Prince Ilya did not leave Prince Kostya’s side. He attempted every test, every tonic, every solution he can think of. He spent his nights by candlelight, going over years of medical notes, sure that in his study, he  _ must _ have seen something like this sickness before. But no matter what treatments he attempted, Kostya’s fever did not break. 

On the third day, Kostya woke feverish and delirious. 

A terrible guilt seized the crown prince. He had long thought himself skilled in the art of medicine—both its theories and its practice—but he could not cure his brother, nor even alleviate the pain he suffered in his sickness. Prince Kostya was not yet ten—in his massive, four-poster bed, he looked so small and fragile as Prince Ilya watched him tremble in the throes of his fever.

But the Prince’s guilt extended far beyond the royal palace. Outside the castle walls, all of his citizens were suffering, and he had failed to provide a remedy for any of them.

He was gone when he was needed—across the world, on the Atarpan Coast—and now that he has returned, he is just as useless, just as feckless in the face of this challenge as he was when he was absent.

And yet Prince Ilya was young—he was fair, and he was kind—and he was not yet ready to give in to despair. Instead, he hardened himself. If he could not cure this sickness with his knowledge of medicine, Prince Ilya would look elsewhere.

Three miles past the northern gate of the palace grounds, there was an old, overgrown forest; on the third day of Kostya’s sickness, Prince Ilya rode there, against the caution of his sister. In the Royal Stables, she’d chastised him:

“You can’t seriously be thinking about running off to the  _ spooky forest _ at a time like this!” Princess Portia said, her hands on her hips, her face screwed up in frustration. “The rumors of a sorcerer living there are just fairy tales. And even if they aren’t, do you really think going after him will work out well for you? What if he just turns you into a toad, or something even more awful?”

“I can’t abandon our people because I’m afraid, Pasha,” Ilya replied her, sticking his foot into the stirrup and climbing into his horse’s saddle. “There are worse things than a sorcerer’s curse. Even if it means I might get hurt... I can’t stay here and watch everyone die, knowing there was something I could have done about it. I need to try.” 

Softer, he whispered, “Kostya needs me.”

There was no convincing him; by the first light of dawn the hooves of his steed were pounding on the drawbridge that led from the castle gate, off north towards the forest. 

The early morning light was breaking through the thick canopy of the forest in slender shafts. The ground underfoot was mossy and untrodden, and the only discernible path between the trees is marked not by use but by a series of carved statues, barely visible beneath the brightly colored lichens clinging to their faces. At the start of the path the sculptures were small, as innocuous as cairns: a fleeing hare here, a scampering shrew there. But as Prince Ilya guided his steed further down the path into the wood, each statue he saw was more grotesque and macabre than the last. The wide maw of a whale rises up from the earth, jaws opened to swallow him; a pair of winged creatures claw fiercely at the dress of a maiden; a massive goat’s head, eyes wide, bares its teeth in a frightful bleating.

The last statue, however, was slightly different from the rest. An entry way had been made of the goat’s mouth; behind its sharp teeth lay a dark chamber of stone. The Prince’s horse whickered nervously, and stamped its foot as he was guided an uneasy stop. 

Far off, softly: the piercing cries of birds. The sun passing west overhead. The snap of a twig, breaking.

Then, from the darkness, emerging as if from a cloud of vapor, the sorcerer himself appeared in the doorway of sneering lips and jagged teeth. He was dressed head-to-toe in white silk; his feet were clad in leather boots polished to a shine. Draped about his shoulders was a cloak of blood red velvet, trimmed in white ermine. Though he appeared fair, and beautiful, the Prince could not help but notice that he carried himself with a cocky gait... and that his lips were pulled into a cruel smirk. 

Prince Ilya girded his strength; he buried his fear somewhere it would not show. All the same, his hands gripped the reigns of his steed tighter.

“Greetings, Sorcerer of the Wood,” Prince Ilya called, fighting to keep the tremble out of his voice. “I am Prince Ilya, of the Kingdom of Nevivon, and I come to you in an hour of great need. I have come to beseech your—”

“I know who you are,  _ Prince _ Ilya,” the sorcerer snapped, and on his lips the honorific sounded like an insult. With a flourish the sorcerer drew his cape behind him; it billowed, red and ominous, behind his pale figure as he stepped out of the darkened chamber behind him. “Can it be?” he sneered, his lips twisting into a mirthless grin. “After all these years, have I finally been deemed worthy of the royal welcome?”

The sorcerer tilted his head to the side, and regarded the Prince the same way a stalking, hungry wolf favors a wounded deer. 

“You say your need is great. I have an idea of why you have come. But how badly do you want my assistance?” The sorcerer’s voice was lilting, saccharine, honey-sweet to cover up the poison of his intent. “Would you bow to me for it?”

The words were barely out of the sorcerer’s mouth before Prince Ilya is swinging himself out of the saddle. The forest loam stained the shins of his trousers as the Prince sunk to his knees; he extended his arms before him in the deepest supplication he knew how to give.

(He is fair, and he is kind; he is foolish, and he is desperate.)

“Please, Sorcerer, I beg of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the dirt beneath his face. “I would do whatever it takes to free my people from the bondage of this plague.”

“Call me Count Lucio,” the sorcerer said, with the air of a demand. “And are you  _ sure _ about that, Ilya? ‘Anything,’ after all, covers all manner of sins… and you are not begging very convincingly.”

Then the ‘Count’ stepped forward, bringing the shining toe of his boot to rest just in front of the Prince’s forehead.

Prince Ilya raised his head just enough to see his own face reflected back at him in the polished leather, and tried to suppress the indignant rage the gesture inspired in him. The implication is clear. This sorcerer, this alleged ‘Count,’ expects Ilya— _ Prince _ Ilya!—to kiss his boots. 

It was almost enough of an insult to turn the Prince away. But as he regarded his reflection in the muddled shine of the sorcerer's boots he could see the impression of the features he shared with his siblings, all of the similarities between them: the same nose. The same freckles. He thought of Kostya with sweat beading on his brow, the littlest prince burning up in his bed. He thought of Pasha, who—though not yet sick herself—would surely fall ill sooner or later, if he returned to the palace empty-handed. 

There was no time to waste on dignity. 

He wrapped his gloved hand beneath the arch of the Count’s foot, and drew the boot to his face, pressing a kiss to the polished toe before releasing it.

(He is not above debasing himself, if that is what he must do to deliver his brother, his kingdom.)

The gesture of submission is brief, but even after Prince Ilya pulled his mouth away, the Count’s boot lingered in his face, dangling, as if he might yet have the gall to ask for a second. But then the Count withdrew his foot and favored the Prince with a sly grin. 

“I find myself inclined to be forgiving of the slight you paid me by not visiting me sooner, Prince Ilya,” he drawled. “You must forgive me my little amusements; it is so very lonely out here, so very far removed from civilized society.”

Prince Ilya rose to his feet, brushing the dirty from his pants and his gloves. The bitter quip was past his lips before he could stop himself, as incapable of holding his tongue as he was of halting the spread of the hot, scalding shame that reddened his cheeks and his throat:

“Yes, it must be terribly lonely, with no one around to lick your boots.”

Count Lucio’s eyes widened—then he doubled over in a cackling, wheezing laugh that scattered the birds from the canopy above and echoed through the forest.

“Quaestor Valdemar, look at the little prince from Nevivon! Bless him, he has a sense of humor. And he’s not yet entirely without nerve, is he?”

From the shadows behind the Count another figure materialized. Their dress was plain, but they wore a massive, horned caul on their head. The Quaestor looked at Prince Ilya, their eyes wide with interest, their fingertips held together in front of their chest. There was something unsettling in the curl of the grin the Quaestor favored the Prince with; when the Quaestor’s smile broadened, their lips pull back on teeth filed to sharp points.

“Fear not, Count Lucio,” the Quaestor said, tilting his head to the side. “Such brazenness can be beaten out of him easily enough.”

“Valdemar!” the Count cried, delightedly. “Don’t be rude!” 

The Quaestor’s lips closed over their pointed smile and they bowed their head in deference to the Count, but they did not take their eyes off the Prince. 

“Apologies, Prince Ilya of Nevivon,” the Count said, with an bow too exaggerated and obeisant for the Prince to fully trust in its authenticity. “As I have mentioned, we have not had such an esteemed guest in a long time. The Quaestor’s manners are a little rusty. Still, they have their uses. Valdemar?” the Count called over his shoulder, “fetch the medicine.”

The Quaestor’s gaze lingered on the Prince, but then they turned, their footsteps silent as they retreated into the goat’s mouth behind them. A moment later he reappeared bearing a tall, stout glass bottle, with a short neck. Its contents sloshed red and thin within the glass. The Quaestor handed the bottle to the Count, and the Count extended his arms to Prince Ilya, holding the bottle out towards him, lightly bowing his head.

“One drop of this solution beneath the tongue, and your citizens will be cured of their sickness. Take it with my blessing.”

Prince Ilya’s hands reached, tentatively, towards the bottle. It seemed far too simple an offer, and he could not help but be apprehensive. “That’s it?” he asked, hesitantly. “You must want something in return. Gold, fine salts—”

His gloved fingers had only just brushed the cool glass before Lucio yanked the bottle back, raising his head to flash the Prince a grin.

“Do not misunderstand, Prince of Nevivon. There will come a request—a time at which you will be asked to pay your due.” The Count shrugged. “But how could I ask anything of you now, when you have no proof the cure will work? After all, we have no shared history, you and I; you have no reason to trust me.” 

Arms still raised his his half-shrug, the Count tossed the bottle upwards. It caught the light as it cut an arc through the air, and Prince Ilya cried out, lunging forward. In his mind he saw the death of all his kingdom, the streets lined with corpses; his little brother in his bed, twisting in his fever; Portia bent over coughing, staining her handkerchief with blood—Ilya nearly tripped on his feet, reaching for the supposed ‘cure’—

But the Count’s opposite hand caught the bottle at the last second, his fingers tightening around its throat just before it shattered on the ground. By now Ilya was practically kneeling in front of him, still caught mid-lunge from trying to save the bottle from shattering. The Count leaned towards him—leered over him—and pressed the heavy bottle into the Prince’s hands, whispering:

“Take the cure on good faith. When your people are hale again, I will call upon your house, and come to you with my price.”

Prince Ilya held the bottle tightly to his chest, as dearly as a mother clutches a babe. Now that he had it, he would not let go of it, even if there was nothing in the glass but snake oil. Still, the subject of payment made him anxious; ‘ _ good faith _ ’ sounded an awful lot like a blank cheque. 

“How can I promise you payment in good faith, if I do not know the currency in which you will demand it?”

“Oh, Ilya, you  _ wound _ me,” the Count laughed. “But you will learn: I am kind, I am generous.” 

The Count leaned closer, drawing his mouth near to Ilya’s ear; his whisper sent a shudder down the Prince’s spine.

“I will not ask anything from you that you are not wholly capable of giving me.”

  
  
  



End file.
